Epilogue

TOM

One Year Later

“ A re you ready?” I call from the kitchen where I’m scoffing my way through the mince pies that Ivy made for us last week.

The answer comes from his study. “Nearly. I won’t be a minute.”

“You said that an hour ago,” I say affectionately. I don’t need to go into the room to know his messy, dark head will be bent over his desk as he scribbles furiously. It’s a common theme in our lives.

I grab another mince pie and examine the kitchen with a satisfied smile. It was installed last month, and I keep stopping to look at it. Bee and I had chosen bright yellow cupboards with an oak worksurface, and it had taken me, Freddy, and Jack a whole week to fit them. We’d been joined by my dad and Brillo, the lead singer of a famous rock band who’s currently staying with my parents. The latter's contribution had been to sit on the doorstep telling us increasingly debauched stories about his sex life, which often distracted Freddy. Less helpful was my brother’s contribution when he’d tripped and knocked an open tin of paint all over the new floor tiles. I swear when he gets his own house, I’m going straight round there to get my revenge.

My phone rings, and I smile when I see Ivy’s contact picture. It was taken last summer when we’d all gone to Greece. She has a sunburned red nose that makes her look like Angry Bird.

“What’s up, Ives?”

“How are you feeling?”

Instantly, nerves come to life in my belly, and I blow out a considered breath. “I’m okay,” I say, a tremor in my voice.

“Babe, he’s going to say yes. You do know that, don’t you?”

“I think so.”

“ Tom !”

“Okay, I know he’ll say yes. It’s just that it has to be perfect. He’s too important to me to fuck it up.”

“You and your romantic gestures,” she says affectionately. “Just on average, how many of them go the way you planned them?”

I consider that. “Thirty per cent, and I think that might be a generous estimation. Oh my god .”

“Babe, calm down. I’m just saying that he thinks you hang the moon, the stars, and entire solar systems. Everything you do is wonderful to him. This proposal will be exactly the same.”

“Are you sure?”

I reach into my pocket and bring out the small velvet box I’ve been carrying around for weeks. I flick open the lid and look at the band. It’s a simple platinum band with one diamond on it because that’s what he is to me—hard and bright to the world, but one of a kind to me. The symbol 1/∞ has been engraved on the inside. I googled “How to say I love you in maths” and got this equation. I love it because it apparently symbolises a love that is so big that no numbers can represent it, and that’s how I feel about Bee. I have zero doubts that Bee will argue about the accuracy of the equation, just as I have zero doubts that he’ll love it, too.

Ivy carries on talking. “I’m absolutely positive, babe. You’re it for him. I’m just so sad I can’t make it to Amsterdam. Bloody work.”

“It’s fine, Ives. We’ll see you and Sal afterwards when my parents get there. It’ll be quieter when everyone else goes home. We’ll go out for a few meals.”

“As long as we go out for those meals and Bee isn’t cooking them.”

I shudder. “I promise.”

“That’s a sacred oath, Tom. It has to mean something.”

I chuckle. Bee has taken to cooking with the enthusiasm he always has about learning a new hobby. Unfortunately, it’s not going as well as his fencing or pottery classes. For someone whose career revolves around writing instructions, he appears unable to follow even the simplest recipes. He’ll get so far with everything looking nice and then suddenly go completely off-piste and add an ingredient that he swears will work. News flash, it doesn’t. I shudder at the thought of the Bolognese he made last week and reach into a kitchen cupboard to grab a tube of Rennies to put in my pocket.

“He says he’s cooking Christmas dinner today,” I confide.

“Oh god,” she says in a tone of hushed horror. “He’ll probably put cinnamon with the turkey like he did with that broccoli the other night.” I laugh, and she says, “I need you to ring me as soon as you’ve done it.”

“I will. I promise.”

“Love you, Tom.”

“Love you too, Ives.”

I click to end the call and listen out. Still silence. “You ready?” I call.

“ Absolutely ready. I’ve just got to do this one small thing.”

I shake my head and wander out into the hall. We’re not due to leave for another hour, but he doesn’t know that. I’ve learnt that if I start making motions that we have to get ready, it still takes him at least an hour to tear himself away from anything. I examine the bannisters that I’m currently restoring and grab the sandpaper. I might as well fit in a bit of work while I’m waiting.

We bought this old house four months ago. Close to Bee’s university, it’s an Edwardian terraced house on a quiet street lined with lime trees. It belonged to an old lady who hadn’t worked on it for years, so it’s definitely a long-term project. It will need a new roof at some point, and the entire upstairs needs plastering, not to mention a new bathroom. We’re looking at having no money until we’re dead, but the walled garden has cherry trees lining it that Bee swears will be beautiful in the spring, and he’s passionately attached to the fireplaces with their original tiles. And when we close the door, it’s just us in our home.

I love living with him. He’s my best friend and lover, all rolled into one quirky and fiercely clever bundle. I never grow tired of hearing what’s running through his head. I knew he was special the moment I met him, and that conviction has solidified over the last year.

What did surprise me is how invested he is in me and us. He’s so clever I’d considered it inevitable he’d be a bit distant in a relationship, but I’d been completely wrong. He always listens to everything I say, which makes me feel ten feet tall.

He’s also fiercely protective. I remember being at one of his department parties, and one of his colleagues was incredibly rude. I hadn’t been spoken to like I was five since I was…well, five. I’d let it go, not wanting to make a fuss, but Bee had no such reservations, and he’d been sharp enough that the bloke had immediately apologised. I’d worried that it would affect Bee’s position in the department, but apparently the bloke has been super friendly since. The thing is, I know that Bee would still have done it even if he’d known there was going to be an adverse reaction.

He’s my protector and friend, and every aspect of my life interests him, even down to my Sunday morning football team. I know he’s busy and tired, and he could easily have a lie in, and I’d never have begrudged him that. I’d been amazed when he turned up for the first match—a small figure with the green-coloured hair he was trying at the time and my parka that drowned his figure. He’s continued coming every week, and now he’s a familiar sight standing on the sidelines cheering us on and taking to task anyone who shouts abuse at us.

His study door opens, and he appears, pushing his glasses up onto his nose. After a brief flirtation with purple hair dye, his hair is once more the brown tumble of waves that I secretly like best. I notice with a smile that he’s added a red streak to it this morning. He’s wearing black jeans, a Santa hat, and a bright red Christmas jumper on which is a humorous maths equation. He’d tried to explain the joke to me, but even Google wasn’t helping me with that one. I flick the bobble on his hat as he nears me, and it bounces against the sharp line of his jaw.

“Got everything done?” I smile as he walks into me, wraps his arms around my waist, and raises his face for a kiss. I oblige, sliding my tongue into his mouth and shuddering at the feel of his lithe body against mine. We made love this morning, but I’m always ready for him. Our sex life just gets better and better, which is probably because there’s such a lot of love underpinning it. We can sweat, groan, do anything, and try anything we feel like in bed, knowing we’ll curl up together and trade kisses and soft whispers afterwards.

I pull back and kiss his cute nose. “Ready?”

He grins. “I’m looking forward to seeing Dad.”

“Are you sure he’s okay with doing Christmas early so we can go to Amsterdam?”

“Honestly, he probably won’t know when Christmas Day is anyway.”

I want to laugh at that slightly disapproving tone because his dad epitomises an absent-minded professor. Let’s just say the apple hasn’t fallen far from that particular tree.

“Well, that’s okay then,” I say. “Bags are by the door.”

“What about the presents?”

“Also, by the door. Let me just switch off the tree lights, and we can get off.”

He follows me into the lounge. This is a rather bare room at the moment. The floorboards need repairing, which we’ll do next year. Yesterday, we stripped half the wallpaper off, ready to paint, before Bee got amorous and pulled me to bed. We’ll get around to it eventually, but the room still looks nice.

We have a real tree with twinkling lights. It looks like it was made to fit in the corner by the old fireplace, which has pretty blue-and-white tiles that remind me of the Netherlands. Almost unconsciously, my hand strays to the box in my pocket. I become aware of Bee staring at me, immediately paste a big grin on my face, and switch the lights off.

“I can’t wait for Christmas in our first home,” Bee says, hugging himself with glee.

I smile affectionately at him. “Me too.” I wink at him. “And then afterwards, we’re getting a dog.”

He shakes his head but can’t conceal the smile that shows off the cute gap in his teeth. “One that will run with you?”

I tap his nose as I walk past. “Well, someone in our family has to.”

“There’s just nothing I like so much in life that it needs me to run towards it.” He shakes his head. “Although, I do like our family. I can’t believe that only a year ago I thought you were a massive twat.”

“You sometimes still do.”

“Yes, but I get over it quickly,” he says earnestly, surprising a laugh from me.

The truth is that we rarely row. Both of us prefer harmony and get bored with strife, so if we do argue, we’re over it fairly quickly. I suppose it helps that we usually say sorry under the sheets.

I take a look around and nod. “Okay, let’s go.”

Bee’s family home is in Oxford, and we spend the journey listening to Christmas music, and then some odd podcast hosted by complete crackpots that Bee wants to listen to. I can’t follow the circular arguments of their utterly barmy conspiracy theories, so I occupy myself by imagining how I’m going to propose. I have all sorts of romantic scenarios in mind, so I just have to pick one. I’m uneasily aware that nothing in my life goes that smoothly, so I have contingency plans in place, too. Nothing can go wrong.

“You’re quiet,” Bee says as I pull into his dad’s street. “Are you thinking about the podcast?”

“Oh yes,” I say quickly. “It was certainly an unusual viewpoint.” I’ve discovered that catchall phrase to be of immense use when hosting Bee’s friends from uni or at his work functions.

His soft snort tells me he isn’t fooled for a second, and I drag him close and take his lips in a lush kiss. When I pull back, I’m extremely gratified to see those clever eyes clouded. I give him another quick kiss. I always want one more.

“Let’s go in.”

He blinks. “Eh?”

“The house,” I say, concealing a smile. “Goodness, you are a bit of a flibbertigibbet.”

His eyes sharpen. “Do you know where that word comes from?”

“No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

His eyes twinkle with amusement as he adjusts his glasses. “It came from the word flepergebet, which meant chatterer. It’s an old Middle English word that’s onomatopoeic.”

“Fascinating.” I wink at him. “ Almost as fascinating as the last cultural mystery tour I took you on, but not quite.”

He rolls his eyes, unable to conceal his smile. “Was that when you took me to see the Baker Street post box with the blue plaque on it?”

“And why did English Heritage do that?”

“Because Dangermouse lived there.” He starts to laugh, and I grin at him.

We’d found that when we finally got to go inside a museum together that we didn’t gel. I can’t stand to walk at a pace more suited to someone on the edge of death, and it’s too hot in those places. He tends to do culture with Jack, and I love the friendship that’s developed between them, but I still take care to arrange my own surprises with Bee. I love to see the interest and enjoyment he gets from them, and they’re what helped to land him, so I’ll never stop.

His grin fades and he pulls me close. “I love you,” he says fiercely. “I don’t want you to ever forget that.”

“Where’s this come from?” I say, hugging him.

He grimaces. “I know I’m a workaholic and a bit too occupied with work. I don’t want you to ever feel that you don’t come first in my world.”

“Hey,” I say, raising his square little chin and gazing into his bright blue eyes. “I know that. You always make me feel special.”

“Because you are ,” he says, the fervour in his voice filling me with warmth. “You’re the most special thing in my life.”

“And you’re mine.” I kiss him. “Which is why you’re cooking dinner for us.”

“Honesty compels me to use the word charring rather than cooking.”

“Well, I’m sure it’ll be better than when your dad made bubble and squeak.”

“God, don’t remind me. Until I left home, I didn’t realise that normal people’s family meals aren’t the subject of an arson investigation.”

I start to laugh. “At least he wasn’t stoned like my parents.”

“I can’t even begin to imagine my dad stoned. The mind boggles.”

We walk up the path to his dad’s front door. It’s a nice, detached house on a leafy side street near the university. His dad keeps making noises about selling it because it’s too big for him, but then he promptly forgets about it. Bee rings the doorbell, and we wait. And wait. And then wait some more.

Bee scratches his head. “Where is he?”

“Chairing a meeting of the Tolkien Appreciation Society?” I say, joking.

“No, that was last week.”

I blink, and he rings the doorbell again. This time, we hear footsteps, and the door swings open. Bee’s dad is a thin man who stoops slightly. His hair is greying and always a little unkempt, but his eyes are the same bright blue as his son’s.

“Bee,” he says in astonishment. He hugs his son and grins at me. “And Tom,” he says, drawing me into a hug. He smells of washing powder, smoke from the fire, and a whiff of pipe tobacco. “What are you both doing here?”

Bee frowns. “We’re doing Christmas early,” he prompts.

His dad’s face clears. “Of course. That’s why I have all the food in. I thought I might have organised an extra session with my Romantic poet’s study group.”

“I can’t believe you forgot,” Bee says piously.

I can’t believe he’s adopting that tone when he lost our car last week, but I keep quiet, accepting the extra handshake his dad offers me and then trying to scrub the ink off my palm.

“ Dad ,” Bee exclaims. “Your pen’s leaked again.”

“Oh dear, how very trying,” he says. His face clears. “Come in anyway, the two of you.”

We step inside, closing the door after us. Bee’s dad walks ahead of us, disappearing into the kitchen where I can hear Christmas carols playing on the radio. Through the open door to the lounge, I can see a fire blazing and a huge Christmas tree twinkling with lights.

“I’ll put dinner on,” he calls.

Bee tuts. “He knows I’m cooking today.”

“Yay.” It lacks conviction, and he turns to me, his eyes narrowing, so I hasten to add, “I’m sure you have things to talk about with your dad. How about I cook instead?”

Bee’s dad appears, wiping his hands on an ink-stained tea towel. “Come into the study, my boy. I’ve read a book with a fascinating theory about Byron. Do you remember reading him when you were six?” He sighs happily. “You were completely obsessed by him.”

I blink. I think I was reading The Secret Seven then and trying to co-opt Arlo and Sal into my crime-solving gang. As I recall, Sal took it over and evicted me and Arlo in favour of her friends.

Bee and his dad walk towards the study, and I watch them go affectionately. My phone beeps, and I look down to see a text from my dad.

Dad: Good luck in Amsterdam. I have no doubt he’ll say yes. I’m composing a song to mark the occasion.

I blanch. I hope it isn’t one that has that primal screaming he’s been experimenting with lately. That had given me nightmares, not to mention a gigantic migraine.

Another text comes through.

Dad: Your mum and I will meet you with Sal in a week. We’ll be celebrating, babe!

I smile, touching his contact picture affectionately. They adore Bee and had taken to him immediately. Arlo is the same, although some of that can be attributed to the fact that he and Bee unmercifully take the piss out of me.

“Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” is playing on the radio now, and I head towards the kitchen, taking my coat off and throwing it over the old coat rack. I’m glad of my jumper as the heating in this old house is rather temperamental.

Footsteps sound, and I turn just in time for Bee to cannon into me.

“Ouf!” I say as my arms automatically wrap around him.

“I just wanted to say again how much I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“Sometimes there’s so much love in me for you that I feel like I might burst .”

“Don’t do that. It’s very unhygienic.”

He laughs as the sweet Christmas song reaches its chorus, and I hum the tune, starting a slow box step with him down the hall. I wink at him. “This brings back memories, babe.”

“The best memories.” He smiles up at me. “I like the bit about always being together through the years. That’s us.”

I kiss him heartily for that and then listen to the song. “Most Christmas songs seem to mention light and bright. Well, I’m definitely light, so that must mean you’re the bright part.”

“ What ?” To my astonishment, he stops dead, staring at me fiercely. “Don’t you know?”

“What?” I say curiously.

“You’re both to me, Tom. You’re the light in the dark for me. I look for you, and everything in my world is okay. And you’re far brighter than me.”

I swallow hard. “Now you are definitely overegging the pudding.”

He shakes his head stubbornly. “No, because it’s you who makes me stop and see things when my head is in a book. Everything would be dull and monochrome without you.”

“I think that’s the nicest thing that anyone has ever said to me,” I say, touched.

He pats my cheek, his expression affectionate. “Then stick around, because we’ve got lots of time for me to improve on that.”

He races off to the study, and I hear his and his dad’s voices raised in debate. I pat the box in my pocket happily, hearing the wind roaring around the old house and imagining that band on his long, thin finger. Will he be Bee Wright or Bee Wright-Bannister? I smile. Whatever he is, he’ll always be mine. Then, I set off to the kitchen to rescue the Christmas dinner.